


Barely Breathing

by seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-13
Updated: 2005-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For SVMadelyn's whiteout05 challenge, The Dark Day That LJ Went Down. Clark's so close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barely Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: To Madelyn for audiencing, and Jaymalea and Nonchop for prereading. *hugs* Thank you.

Lex is honey-smooth under his hands when Clark pushes him into the couch.

Flowing like liquid, one leg sliding around Clark's knee, a whisper-soft brush of lips against the corner of his mouth. Lex is so *easy*; it just blows his mind. Like he was made for this, just this. Just for Clark.

He can write his name on that perfect skin with his nails, draw the constellations that were in the sky the first time Lex went down on him in the loft, clinging to the telescope, twisting the metal beyond recognition, crushing the lens, powdered glass falling like sand onto the floor. Biting back his own moans, because Dad was downstairs.

When all it took to get Clark on his knees was a smile from that pretty scarred mouth.

Now, he can pin Lex's wrists above his head and hold him there; he can strip Lex in the time it takes him to draw a shaking breath, flawless, silky skin that shivers under every touch stretched out, all for him.

He's not Lex Luthor now, CEO or criminal mastermind or that ugly word, nemesis, that they use in the papers like a pejorative, like any single word could possibly encapsulate everything Lex is and can be and *will be*. He's just Lex, who arches into every touch, barely breathing.

Clark leaves marks for other lovers to find; the inner curve of Lex's thigh, so close to his cock that Lex whimpers and twists; the silkiest part of his upper arm, that needs Clark's teeth; the back of his shoulder over solid bone, where he bites when he fucks him. When Lex goes down on his hands and knees and begs for it, ass in the air, whispering words that don't even have syllables, just barely shaped air hissed between clenched teeth.

So *pretty* like this, spread out on black leather in a monochrome office, all bright metal and hard glass, cold moonlight spilling silver around them.

Clean, soft skin, rich as cream, addictive as any drug. He can wrap Lex around him like a blanket, keep him clinging to the edge for *hours*, make him whisper promises that he'll never be able to keep.

"I want you," Clark whispers into Lex's skin. I love you, he doesn't say, but he can show Lex with his body, the only way Lex can hear it. Use his tongue to draw patterns, his fingers to memorize and relearn, slide them between willingly parted thighs and into the tight heat of his ass. Hold him down with a hand on his hip and swallow his cock fast and hard, then slow it down until Lex finds words that tell Clark what he wants to hear.

I love you, Lex says, like he might mean it. I need you, that Clark knows. I want you, that's a given. I'll give you whatever you want, whenever you want, just don't stop, don't go, don't leave, don't leave *me*.

It's all their usual lies, but one day, it will be true.

A thousand years ago, before the world turned and times changed, Clark had owned Lex, even if Clark didn't know it, wouldn't know it for far too long. Owned this perfect skin and willing body and brilliant mind, owned every sound and every whisper and every slick slide of his body. Lex.

"Clark," Lex murmurs into cold air, fingers twisting in Clark's hair. His hips push up, cock sliding down his throat, but Clark wants control of this. I need you, Clark says against Lex's hip, rubbing his cheek along the slick cock by his head, ducking underneath to suck his sac, slow and tender and careful. I *need* you.

I was seventeen, Clark thinks. I held onto the telescope while you changed everything. I thought you loved me, that you wanted me, and I thought that it would be everything, and it wasn't. You fucked me and fucked me over, and when you walked away, you thought you could take this with you. But I loved you, and I couldn't let you go. I couldn't give you up. And I never will.

He lifts Lex's legs, slicking his cock with one hand, watching Lex writhe for him, full body like a shudder. Staring at Clark with wide, glazed blue eyes, licking his lips when Clark lines himself up, rubbing against Lex's ass, pulling the long legs over his shoulders and pushing inside.

God, inside. Lex.

Clenched tight and hot around him, whimpering into the couch, eyes shut tight. Clark leans close enough to kiss him, bite his lip bloody, another way for any other lover to know that someone else has been here, owns this. He'd write his name there, too, tattoo it on Lex's skin, so everyone knows.

So *Lex* knows, the next time they face each other across a broken lab or the top of a building or a field in the middle of fucking nowhere. He'll remember every time he looks in the mirror, touches himself, comes jerking himself off in his solitary bed beside the latest partner, nameless and faceless and meaningless.

I could fuck you forever, Clark tells Lex's throat. I could do this, just this, until we both collapse, until you can't think of anything but me, until I'm all there is for you. And it'll happen one day. Not yet. Not today. But one day. I'll crawl in your bed and never let you leave. And you won't want to.

Sex with Lex is flying and fireworks and hot Kansas summer nights all at once--sticky and blinding and brilliant. Slick, sweaty skin clings to his, Lex's hands hard on his back, spread wide, breaking his nails in Clark's skin, bruised fingertips and strained muscles.

One day, Clark tells his lips. You taught me everything you knew; how to love and how to hate and how to want and never be able to give it up or let it go. You *taught* me that, and you never taught me how to stop.

One day, Clark whispers in his ear. One day, I won't be Superman, and nothing else will matter but what I want, and this is the only thing I know to want anymore.

"Clark." It's breathed on a gasp, and he feels Lex coming, hard and messy against his stomach, a slick mess that Clark can drag his fingers through and suck the taste away. Clark comes from that, from Lex's taste on his skin, Lex's tongue in his mouth, his cock wrapped in Lex's body.

Lex will remember. He'll remember tomorrow, when Clark Kent stands in the front row of the press conference and asks him about his plans for LexCorp expansion, feel Clark's fingers on his skin beneath his clothes. He'll almost flush, while Clark sucks a pencil and undresses him with just his eyes, mark out all the places he owns beneath the tailored suits, bruised black in the shape of his fingers and his hips and his teeth.

He'll remember how Clark's cock felt in his ass the next time he sits at his desk. Remember Clark's mouth on his cock the next time he looks at this couch. Breathe Clark's name the next time he comes, no matter whose body he's inside.

Next time, Clark tells a sleeping Lex, curled up in his own bed, everything might change. And next time, Clark might not leave in the morning.


End file.
